Pretending
by Mizz Berlitz
Summary: She pretended that she didn't miss her mother. But she was crying on the inside.


Pretending

**A/N : Too…much…humor…must…write…angst! I was working on the first chapter of Barbie Girls… And Boys? And while there's nothing to laugh at except the stupid title, I read too many humor fics today and was overloaded. I prefer angst over humor but I can't seem to find any good angst fics. So I wrote one. Not good, but it has angst. Mostly drama though. **

Miley POV

I pretended I didn't care.

I pretended that when Lilly's mom baked a cake for her birthday, I liked store-bought ones better.

I pretended that I was perfectly fine living in a house with two males and no other female to confide in save for when Lilly came over.

I pretended to be relieved that I didn't have a mom to correct my mistakes like Oliver's mom.

Sometimes, I get angry with her for leaving me.

It isn't the same being a girl with only your father and your brother. They don't understand the importance of things like buying a new dress for school dances. My dad just tells me to wear an old one so Lilly is generous and pools her money with me so I can buy that red dress in the display window.

Dad was reluctant to let me wear makeup, and buy me more grown-up clothes. In fact, I think he shopped for me at the Children's Place until my fourteenth birthday.

I go down to the beach at night, strumming my guitar softly and letting my voice float out over the ocean while I sing to her.

If she can hear me, she doesn't answer me.

And I sit at the waters edge, calling out to her.

I have to be strong for Dad and Jackson. I can't let them know that I cry myself to sleep or keep a picture of her under my pillow.

I can't let them know that having a friend like Lilly isn't the same thing as having a mom.

They would try to help me, but they wouldn't understand.

I miss her.

But I have to be strong for my fans.

What would they think if Hannah Montana missed a concert because 'she misses her mommy?'

They don't care, they don't want my mom, they want me to sing for them.

They want me up there no matter what, no matter what I'm going through.

How can they expect me to act like that?

I'm not a Barbie doll, I have struggles too.

They don't want small-town girl Miley Stewart who goes through life smiling with painted-on face while she hurts so much on the inside.

They want Hannah Montana. They want perfection.

And I can't deliver it to them.

I can't live like this forever. I can't satisfy everyone.

But they've all cut me out to be some balanced, happy girl who has a talent for singing.

What would they do if they uncovered my weaknesses?

Sometimes I want to tear off my wig and scream to the audience, "I'm not perfect! I'm a normal kid!"

I'm just a celebrity to them; with no personality.

Despite songs my dad has written such as "Just Like You" and "The Best of Both Worlds" they don't have sympathy. I sing for them or I'm 'out.'

Sometimes I want to quit being Hannah Montana.

What would Lilly and Oliver say to me?

"I thought you loved being Hannah Montana," they'd say. Or maybe they'd go so far as to reply, "Yeah, it must be hard, making all that money and going to celebrity parties."

No one understands.

She understood.

When I was overwhelmed, she'd take me into her arms and comfort me.

How could she leave?

Didn't she know that…that I needed her?

Did she know how pressured I was, how close to cracking I was?

My dad almost found out.

When he was dating the real estate lady.

I let a bit of my vulnerability show.

That was a mistake.

He hugged me and I told him I was alright, but I was blinking back tears.

He couldn't fathom how much I missed her.

How could he get over her so easily?

I look back and I want to change the past, to bite my tongue instead of asking how that woman could replace her.

I can't let them know how much I need her, how helpless I am without her.

She helped me get through everything, she was my guiding light.

But now she's gone.

I have to fend for myself.

Which is why each night I sing a little quieter, and look back to see if anyone is outside with me.

They would question me, they exclaim that they thought I was fine, they wouldn't understand.

They wouldn't be able to help me.

Sometimes I want to scream to the heavens for her to come back.

But instead I turn.

I walk back up the beach until I reach my house and open the back door and sneak inside.

I close the door softly behind me.

I quietly make my way upstairs to my room.

And shut the door behind me silently.

And flop down on my bed.

And stare out the window blankly at the moon in the sky shining over the dark waters.

And I squeeze my eyes tightly shut.

And I clutch the picture of her under my pillow as if that will go away, too.

And I try in vain to hold back the tears that threaten to trickle down my cheeks.

And I whisper to myself weakly, "I don't care."

But I'm just pretending.

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